


Out of Range

by nodibs



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Band Break Up, Fluff and Angst, Friends With Benefits, Implied Relationships, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Past Relationship(s), Sad, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2014-10-15
Packaged: 2017-12-21 21:54:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/905380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nodibs/pseuds/nodibs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One Direction broke up five years ago, but there was always the bungalow. </p><p>(Or: Louis, Liam, Niall, and Zayn keep tradition and visit the bungalow every year. They don't speak much outside of that long weekend, and there's always an air of unfamliarity, like maybe it's just for show now, but the four of them refuse to accept that fate. There's also something, someone, missing, and, though he never shows up, Harry always leaves cold beer in the fridge and a key under the mat. Until one year when the door is unlocked and there's a deep red convertible Jag parked in the drive.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> So, this was supposed to be one-shot, but I decided to break it up into just a few chapters for now. I can't get myself to concentrate on it otherwise. You do have to read the summary to understand what's going on in this little prologue / first chapter business. As always, feedback is much appreciated. :) xxx

Louis wakes up with bloodshot, dark-ringed eyes in all his clothes from the night before and reminds himself that it’s Thursday. More importantly, it’s October third, and it’s been five years, to the date, since his life became a downward spiral of less-important moments left in the wake of something beautiful.

He turns his head to the left and stares miserably at his alarm clock, willing it, unsuccessfully, to roll the time back. Thirty seconds, and several fleeting thoughts about the plausibility of telekinesis later, he brings the heel of his palms up to rub at his aching eyes and wonders if he can get away with just not showing up. Yes, it would be bad taste, his mother would be horrified, but he surely can’t be the only one who often wonders what the point is anymore.

Every year, it’s the same thing. The first Thursday in October, he drives up to Cheshire, back to the place where it all happened, everything, start to finish. He meets Liam first, always first, and then Zayn will show up a half hour late with bed-claimed hair and some excuse of traffic or mechanics. Lastly, Niall will come around with no excuse or apology long after they’ve already gone inside and settled in. They’ll cook and laugh and swim and reminisce, and on Sunday they’ll leave with hopeless promises to not wait the whole year to see each other again. 

And it’s not like he doesn’t want to see the lads, because he does. He wants to see them… randomly at Tesco’s, or once in a while for coffee or dinner, or on the set of one of those bloody ‘Where Are They Now?’ shows – just not another one of these horridly forced weekends where they all spend more time focused on what they’ll do once they finally get back home than on each other. Polite – that’s what it is. Just polite.

Louis sighs dejectedly and sits up. At this point, he’ll be giving Zayn a run for his money on tardiness, and he hasn’t even begun to pack. So it’s with one last wishful look at his alarm clock that he finally releases his sheets and walks to his closet.

 

It’s only when he’s just pulling a pair of dark-wash skinnies over his hips that he wonders how long it will take for Harry to be brought up. They only ever talk about him late at night, curled around the fireplace or a 2 AM cuppa, but they never say his name. It’s silly, really, that something so simple, so fundamentally basic as a name threatens to fracture their little false reality that swells within the walls of the bungalow. It’s all they have left, anyway. He never comes around, Harry. He leaves a bottle of booze in the fridge and a key under the mat, and, for the first two years, a note on the table with an almost-apology for his absence. 

Those years were cautious, timid, terribly laced with desperation to never, ever change, to be friends until the sun came crashing inward, taking them all out in a blaze of starlight glory. And Louis took it the hardest. ‘Indefinite hiatus’ is what their management called it, told it to be. Everyone knew. Their time had come and gone with ghostly echoes of distant footfalls.

It all came down to one defining moment: the look of absolute defeat on their label’s face as they delivered the news of far-less-than impressive ticket sales, and a single that charted at thirty-seven with no projected incline. There were talks of a farewell tour, to support their ‘last album’ with a release date that was to be determined at a later date. 

The last thing Louis remembers is the distant shouts of his name as he stormed out. In retrospect, it was childish and melodramatic, but, in that moment, he felt like couldn’t breathe. The walls were closing in, his lungs were filled with lead, and his heart was climbing its way out of his chest, breaking every rib in its way. He had given five years of his life to a world that didn’t want him anymore.  He invested so much of himself in this, this empire they’d built and sacrificed so much to it.

It’s not like he didn’t know it would happen. He felt the shift, knew that things were changing. He knew, from the beginning that it wouldn’t, couldn’t, last forever. He just never knew how it would happen or how to prepare for it. Those last few months were a nightmare, a time they’re all quietly ashamed of.

Liam became reclusive and distant, acting perfectly fine when it came time to work, but disappeared just after. Zayn went home, missed five interviews, and told the label to fuck themselves. Niall moved  to America – somewhere in Virginia – and got into sound engineering, started building studio equipment in his free time. And then there was Harry and Louis.

Louis became stone-faced and solid. He pulled so far into himself that he barely remembers longer weeks as shades of grey. He does remember the fights, though. God, does he. The violent, angry words and all their fucking misery, because of Harry. Because of himself. Because they were already stretched tight and paper-thing before their world went up in flame.

Harry drank – a lot. One Direction’s perfect little starlet was seen out on the town even more than usual. Every day, it felt like, Louis would see the morning paper with a picture of his boyfriend stumbling out of a club at half three in the morning with girls hanging off his arm. There are sleazy, slimy articles of how Harry was ‘trying to get it in while he’s still relevant’ and other disgusting assumptions. Little did they all know that just that afternoon, he’d be begging Louis to come out with him, hold his hand, be with him, in public, “Fuck ‘em!” he’d say, “They don’t own us anymore, Lou! Don’t you see? It’s over. It’s over! We can do what we want.” Louis would just shake his head and stare at his phone until he heard a deep sigh and a door slam, and it killed him.

Louis watched the distance grow and the shadows loom. He saw the longing grow in Harry until it devoured him entirely, until he went mad with the need for more – more that Louis couldn’t provide. Not then. . All it took was one night, one screaming match right before one final concert, and as the last note rang out and they took their final bow, Louis looked at Harry and he knew. It was over. All of it.

So, now, years later, they can broach the subject on lonelier, quieter nights, when their ears are ringing with the stillness. Louis will say that he still has his regrets, the things he didn’t say, that he should have said instead. He regrets the pettiness they let come between them, and he regrets never telling Harry that he loved him, loves him so fucking much that last time, as Harry gripped to his back, pleading and crying into his shoulder. He’ll speak out his confessions to the people who used to know him the best and they’ll fall open in the air between them, never prodded or pushed. Just honest. Louis is prepared for that.

What Louis isn’t prepared for is a sleek deep red convertible Jag to be parked in his usual spot and for Liam, Zayn, and Niall to be stood around it, watching as he pulls up with crossed arms and tight lips.

“Alright?” Louis asks as he grabs his rucksack from the passenger seat, hopping out.

“Hi, mate,” Zayn attempts a smile, but Louis sees the strings that pull the corners of his lips upward. They hug anyway.

“You look wretched as usual, love,” Niall jokes, and Louis mutters a fond, ‘Piss off,’ into his shoulder as he hugs him tightly.

“Louis,” Liam greets quietly, and Louis tilts his head at his tone.

“C’mon, mate,” Louis says, dropping his bag and opening his arms in a wide, dramatic gesture, “You’re not excluded from this." Liam smiles, small, and walks into the embrace. Louis breathes him in, familiar. “So,” he nearly shouts, pulling away from Liam, “Are we waitin’ on a bloody invitation or what? And who’s got the new wheels? Pretty, that,” Louis smiles. Silence follows. Deep, heavy, tangible silence.

It’s so quiet he hears the click of a lighter from the second story balcony off the side. He closes his eyes tightly, breathes in slowly, and nods. “Right,” he says, because he feels it now, doesn’t need an explanation. Seventeen seconds. It takes seventeen seconds for Louis to compose himself enough to smile again at blurry faces that don’t believe him. “Guess we should get in, yeah? Didn’t mean to keep you all waiting. Must be starving by now! It’s already half seven.”

They file in the door slowly, Louis bringing up the end of the line in the excuse of holding the door open. As soon as he closes the door, his foot hitting the hard oak wood floor, he feels it. The sound of the lock throws a spark in his heart and sets his blood on fire. He’s here.

 


	2. II

“I never knew you to smoke.”

Louis is leant against the sliding glass door frame, arms and feet crossed, wholly unprepared for every second that will surely follow, because he can’t turn around now. Harry knows he’s there, he just _knows_ it, and neither of them will acknowledge that thin thread that ties their awareness of one another or the fact that it hasn’t been severed or worn by time.

Harry swivels around on his heel not too quickly or slowly, a moderate pace that reeks of half-feigned surprise and indifference. He’s all golden, tan skin and Ray Bans with a too-big black t-shirt and skinny jeans to match, a fag tucked between his fingers. He raises it, almost like a dare, to his lips and takes another drag, and Louis can’t even see his eyes behind the sunglasses, but he’s sure they’re dragging over his body in excruciating detail, taking in every small change, lingering on the fresher tattoos that litter his forearm and the way his hair falls uselessly across his forehead. Louis raises a hand to swipe through his fringe at the thought.

Harry blows the smoke to the side and off the balcony, watches it drift and disappear as a small smile grows on his face. He taps it twice as he throws Louis a sideways glance, “Funny thing, time.”

And, “Yeah,” Louis supposes it is.

There’s a moment of silence, it’s suspended between them. Harry’s got smoked trapped in his lungs, and Louis’ got his heart trapped in his throat, and how was this supposed to even ever work? Then Harry starts laughing, really laughing, so hard that he has to beat his closed fist to his chest as he coughs a little too hard. He drops his cigarette to the ground, rubbing it with the toe of his shoe as he reins the coughing fit back into smaller giggles.

“So, how is this gonna work?” He asks, and, huh, that hasn’t changed either.

Louis raises his eyebrows in retaliation to this discovery, hopes he’s the only one to notice, “What’d’ya mean?”

Harry gives him an unimpressed look. Louis can tell even with those stupid glasses still perched on the younger boy’s nose, “You know exactly what I mean, Louis.”

Louis flinches visibly at that, the sound of his name. The last time he heard Harry say his name, it was from red-bitten lips that caught the edges of tear tracks from bright green eyes as he made a low, soft, desperate attempt at salvaging anything he could of their relationship. The time before that, it was being moaned into the crook of his neck as Harry fucked him deeply. He hasn’t heard his name roll off that tongue in five years, and he’s not sure he was ever meant to hear it again.

It makes him angry. Who does Harry think he is? Things aren’t the same. He can’t bat his pretty little lashes and rub his forefinger against his rosy bottom lip and get whatever the fuck he wants anymore. He can’t stand there with smoke-stained clothes and tangible sorrow and expect Louis to bend to his every will. There’s dark cloud of darker secrets that’s hanging in halo over him, around him. Louis just wants it to be his turn to hold the cards.

He huffs through his nose, shifting his weight grumpily, “Why are you here, Harry?”

Harry pauses, unsure, testing the weight of Louis’ words carefully, calculating, and, in the end, he only shrugs. It’s not careless, and Louis can see that. It’s a small, silent confession. Harry doesn’t fully understand it either.

“Five years, Harry. Not a word or a letter… never anything more than a bottle of booze and a key under the mat. Five years,” Louis crumbles, and, God, he hates himself for it. He’s thought, many times, of seeing Harry again; of how, when, where it would happen, if he would still look sun-worn and gorgeous, slightly fuzzy around the edges. He always thought he, himself, would be stronger, edgier, a little harder. He’d show Harry how well he is, how not-broken and not-angry and not-completely-entangled in him he is. He’d show him. Instead, he’s showing all the opposite, all the truth and all the dirt under his skin.

Harry doesn’t apologise, because he wouldn’t be standing on there on the balcony if he weren’t sorry. He also doesn’t play the role,  won’t say he doesn’t care, because he would have never tried if he didn’t. Instead he crosses his arms to his chest, blocking Louis out, and Louis tries not to wince at the gesture. Harry sighs ruefully, doubtfully, a loaded sound dislodged from the back of his throat. “Louis,” is all he says.

“Why now?” Louis asks in nothing more than a whisper.

“I,” Harry starts, pauses, coughs, looks to his right off the balcony once more, “Funny thing, time.”

And, “Yeah,” Louis supposes it is. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for questions / comments / concerns and fic previews: nodibs.tumblr.com / @delilahfiction


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's nearly finished writing this story? This girl!  
> Guess who's gonna hate my guts? Every last one of you.
> 
> xxx

Louis walked away after that first conversation with Harry, leaving him to look out across the greener pastures on his own because Louis couldn’t breathe properly; he needed to breathe in fresh air that wasn’t tainted by the too-familiar mixture of Harry’s shampoo and cologne every time the wind blows softly from the East. And when he had walked downstairs to find the other lads already starting dinner in the kitchen, he was happy to only receive kind smiles as he rushed out of the back door. They weren’t stupid enough to stop and ask him how he was.

And so it goes, without another word. The day carries on with stagnant air and _the_ question on all their minds, linger on the tips of their tongues. It wasn’t necessarily bad. When Louis mustered up the courage to return inside, he found Liam clad in a frilly blue apron, holding one of those big wooden spoons, and shooting a comically horrified expression at Niall, who was clad in powdered sugar. Zayn had a bowl in one hand and a whisk in the other with a smile that filled his eyes in a way that Louis hasn’t seen in years, and Harry was just behind him, hair pulled back with a stupid yellow headband and his stupid black Ray-Bans, clapping his hands and smiling fondly at the sugar-coated Irishman.

And if Louis could ignore the way the mess highlights Niall’s laugh lines and the prominent stubble on Zayn’s chin and the broader, solid stance of Liam, it’s almost like nothing’s changed at all; like the band never broke up; like they never left each other to become different people. Louis squeezes his eyes shut at the thought because that’s _not fair._ They aren’t a unit, they did leave each other, _everything_ has changed.

Another wave of laughter hits Louis like a tidal wave, and it’s echoed by a laugh that’s so distinctly Harry – the kind that causes him to do this squeaky hiccup thing that Louis was always hopelessly endeared by. It causes the other boys to laugh even harder, and Louis nearly wants to scream.

There’s a dangerous, reckless part of him that wants to point out just all the cracks in this façade; to remind them all that the only reason they’re there is a blind sense of obligation. There’s a bigger part of him, though, that wants nothing more than to live in the spaces between the breaths they take collectively. He wants all of it, and nothing at all. So, he doesn’t scream, doesn’t say a word.

So, he bites the inside of his cheek and lifts his lips in a practiced manner. It’s a smile he’s shown a thousand times – to fans, photographers, and managers alike. He’s only recently come to use it in front the lads, and he wonders if they recognize it; he wonders if it looks as fake as it feels.

But then Harry’s stepping forward and cradling Niall’s face in his hands as he licks a fat stripe up his cheek. Louis pauses, just for a second, to be amazed by Harry’s audacity. How he had the guts to stroll up to Niall as if nothing had ever changed and cross so many personal boundaries, probably not even considering if Niall would be _okay_ with that kind of contact now – if it was _alright_ for him to use him in the spot of a lighthearted joke.

But the boys are laughing, and then Louis is laughing. Louis is laughing the hardest out of all of them, and they all turn with bright eyes and glowing smiles at the sound, because Louis hasn’t laughed like this in ages. And Louis just keeps going, laughing and laughing because they don’t even _understand._ Like, that was such a _Harry_ move – to just take without consideration; to do what he wants without giving a damn about the consequence; to throw himself into the realm of possibility and pray for the best result. Take, take, take, take, _take._ All he ever did was take until Louis couldn’t possibly give him anymore. So his laugh is dark, twisted around his guts and anchoring him in the moment. If any of the boys notice the sharper edge to his stare in the hour that follows, they don’t say anything.

\--

It’s later that night that _the_ question gets asked by Zayn. They’re all sat around the fire pit outside, the night sky blanketing them in a more sincere sense of security, and maybe a bit of isolation. Maybe that’s why he brings it up at all. They’re warm and fuzzy with the tingle of a nearly-empty third bottle each.

“So, Hazza,” and Louis feels the use of that nickname to be completely unnecessary, “what finally brings ya ‘round?” It’s conversational, light, but Zayn’s gaze is earnest, questioning, and, if you looked closely enough, timid.

Harry nods, like he’d been waiting for the question, which, to be fair, he probably was, “I don’t know, man… I figured it was time to stop running.” Louis nearly chokes on his drink. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but that kind of candid honesty was not it. “It’s just like – If I could,” Harry cuts himself off with a sigh, “I’ve been real shit about this all, you know? It’s time to grow up and live in the moment. The past is the past. In the beginning, I was just – just trying to deal with the fact that I had lost two of the greatest things in my life. I lost the band and I lost my boyfriend, and I didn’t see why everything had to crash down at once, you know? I didn’t know how to handle it, didn’t know who to turn to because you all were trying to figure it out, too. I don’t have an excuse for the rest of that time. I was just being a miserable twat. I can never tell you how much I’ve grown to regret not being here.” His voice grows raspier, deeper, more strained toward the end.

Louis looks at him with his mouth slightly ajar, and, Jesus. They don’t just – they don’t _speak_ like that around the fire! They never have. They wrap whatever they’re confessing in carefully crafted metaphor and hope the others pick up the pieces. Louis almost wants to be offended for the logs for hearing something so brash. Harry’s always been open and vulnerable, but this is different. This time he’s not holding back, letting it out until his sleeves stain red. He’s cutting to the core of them and showing that he wasn’t left entirely unscathed either.

“Well,” Niall pipes up, raising his drink, “Cheers, mate. It’s about damn time.” There’s an echo of agreement from Zayn and Liam, and Louis makes a small noise in the back of his throat that he doubts anyone actually hears, but it’s something.

A loud yawn comes from Louis’ left, and he tilts his head at Liam, a small, daring smile as if to say, ‘Really, Payno? Already?’

“Piss off, Tommo,” Liam simles kindly, and, okay, maybe that hasn’t changed. “I’m knackered. This getting old stuff is wearing, I’m tellin’ ya.”

Louis huffs, “I resent that.” Suddenly four pairs of eyes are on him. “I am the oldest one here, and I am not anywhere _near_ ready to consider myself _old,_ ” He spits the last word with disdain. “We’re just… Youthfully challenged.”

Silence.

“Old,” Liam reiterates.

“Vintage,” Louis defends.

“That sounds even worse,” Zayn decides, voice coated thick in amusement, “Old,” he tacks on for good measure.

“Classic?” Louis tries.

“We’re not bloody cars, for Christ’s sake,” Niall laughs. “Old,” he agrees.

“Oi! This isn’t even fair!” Louis exclaims, exasperated.  Laughter surrounds him in a cloud of warmth and he smiles back after a quick, deep shiver that has nothing to do with temperature.  

“Perpetual Peter Pan, you,” Harry smiles at him – at him – at Louis. Harry smiles that fond, dimply, genuine smile at Louis, and it’s been years since Louis felt like flying.

“Thank you, Master Yoda,” Louis rolls his eyes, but smiles back all the same. Maybe this won’t be as hard as he thought. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nodibs.tumblr.com // @delilahfiction


	4. IV

Louis stares at the clock and thinks of all the ways he could watch it burn. It's 4 in the morning and he's been wide awake since 2, unable to shake the sound of Harry's soft snores from across the hall or the weeks it took him to leanr to sleep without it. Part of him knows that the has some headphones in his side table, and that he could easily block the noise out. Another part of him wants to march over to Harry's room, wake him, and ask how he _dare_ do that to Louis, why he would shove those delicate sounds he grew to find comfort in back at him only to take them away once more; he wants to ask if he's _enjoying_ this like the smug bastard Louis knows he is. But he doesn't. He lays in his bed, on his back, with the blankets halfway down his chest and allows his eyes to well up and spill over.

\---

When Louis wakes up for the second time, it’s half past Noon. He’s only just coherent enough to make out the distant sound of laughter coming from down the stars. It sounds light, genuine, and it’s when he hears Niall choke up and cough that he opens his eyes, Harry’s voice floating to his ears, “Chew, Niall. Chew your food.”

Mindless chatter follows. Louis couldn’t separate one sentence from the next - a constant flow of steadying, familiar voices that tie him to his bedframe. He won’t let himself go down and ruin their moment. He knows that, the minute he comes into view, the mindless chatter will turn to _mindful_ chatter, and everyone will graciously avoid the awkward tension. He isn’t naïve enough to believe that some light fireside banter was enough to ease the five years of pent-up resentment he has for Harry. However, he also knows how much the other boys have missed him, and, despite their loyalty and sensitivity to Louis, they don’t hold bitterness like bombs in their chests. He wants them to be happy.

So, he grips the sheets with white knuckles and closed eyes and waits until he hears Zayn and Liam come up and walk past his room on his way to their own.  It’s only then that he swings his legs out of the bed and lets his feet touch the cold hardwood floor. He curls his toes for a minute, hearing the clinking sound of dishes being washed, and wonders if he could actually get away with sleeping straight through the next two days, or pack up and slip out and to his car unnoticed. But then he hears a deeply rough and familiar chorus float up to him, and every bone in his body aches to just be closer.

And Louis’ nothing but selfish and self-destructive these days, so he slips on yesterday’s jeans, a faded black shirt, and the closest off-white beanie and pads down the stairs.

“Oi, Princess. You’re alive, then. You missed a hell of a sandwich, mate!” Niall exclaims the moment his eyes catch Louis’.

“Charming as ever, Nialler. Morning.”

Niall rolls his eyes and grabs the final wet dish from Harry to dry it off, “Seriously, though. I’ve missed your cooking, mate. Never leave me again!” He’s dramatic as ever as he turns to Harry, bottom lip poked out excruciatingly far.

Harry chuckles, and Louis wonders if Niall registers the slightly uncomfortable edge to it. And maybe Niall does register it because he places the final dish in the cabinet and claps Harry on the back, sending a nod at Louis and bounding up the stairs.

Louis stares at the floor, left arm gripping his right elbow, not really sure how to continue. Harry decides for him. He kicks out the end chair at the wooden dining table and gestures toward it, “Sit,” he says softly. Just as Louis is about to refute, something about not being _a dog for fuck’s sake_ , but he continues, “I made you one, too. No cheese, no mayonnaise. The way you like.” He places it on the table and finally turns to look Louis in the eye.

“Thank you,” and it punches out of him.

“You’re welcome.” A smile, and then he’s pulling a pack of cigarettes off the counter and a lighter out of his pocket, walking out the sliding-glass door behind him.

Louis walks slowly over to the table, sits down, and stares at the sandwich intently. He screams internally because this is so _them;_ courteous, cautious, simple and familiar – a peace offering in the form of a bloody sandwich. He takes a bite anyway.  

\---

It’s a quarter past 6, about, when Louis shows face again. After the “sandwich incident,” he made his way up to his room to hide out until his he felt a little more grounded. He walks out into the garden to see the boys kicking ‘round the football. Harry and Niall versus Liam and Zayn, it looks. Zayn leaned back, eyebrows lifted and mouth open, laughing and clapping as Harry and Niall both go for a sliding save the ball is kicked their way and both miss miserably, sliding into each other instead. Louis only fights the smile tugging at his lips for a moment before he casts his eyes downward, arranging himself to lean against the doorframe. When he looks up again, Harry’s looking at him from his spot on the ground – hair tied back with a horribly tribal bandana, grass stains spread all up the side of his white running shorts, and eyes so terribly bright and happy – and his breath catches for just a moment.

There’s an uncomfortably long pause, and Louis realises that they’re just staring at each other. He coughs, ruffles his hair, and decides it’s time, “Still as dreadful as ever, Styles.” If possible, Harry’s smile grows even wider. Louis smiles, close-mouthed but genuine, back at him and turns to Niall, “Horan! I expected better from you, mate. C’mon, now.”

“Mate, I’m _trying._ Look at who they paired me up with. Can hardly blame me,” he’s dusting off his clothes and laughing between sentences.

“Heeeyyy,” Harry says, long and drawn out – typical.

“ ‘S alright, boys. Captain Tommo’s here to save the day,” and then Louis’ ripping his shirt over his head and tossing it back into the kitchen, shoving his shoes on and jogging out to where Harry’s now getting to his feet.

“Hey!” Zayn and Liam protest at once, “Three against two ain’t fair,” Zayn pouts.

Louis looks to the boys on either side of him and turns back to say, “Mate, to be fair, these two make maybe one solid player. The odds are about even.” Harry and Niall probably protest, but Louis can’t hear it over the blood rushing in his ears and the sound of Liam’s responding chuckle. “Are we gonna do this then?”

They do. They play until the sun has set and they’re out of breath – from laughing or playing, they aren’t sure – and it feels a lot like they’re teenagers. It goes on for hours, and no one is keeping score. Zayn and Liam are about falling over each other by then end of it.

“Truce! Truce, Uncle, whatever. I can’t go on,” Zayn wheezes.

“I’m absolutely knackered,” Liam chimes in.

“Alright,” Louis laughs, “I suppose we can stop there. Good to know I’ve still got it,” he smirks.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re a God among men, Louis Tomlinson. We’ll never compare to your glory, etcetera, etcetera,” Niall waves noncommittally over his shoulder as he walks with Liam and Zayn into the house. “I’m well due for a shower.”

Louis smiles, tries to remember the last time he felt this young or this connected to the other boys. It only fades when the screen door shuts gently and he realises that he’s left alone with Harry. He turns slowly, on his heel, and the younger lad has his head cocked to the side, mouth curved around a hesitant question, “Fancy a cupcake?”

An incredulous laugh punches out of Louis, his eyebrows drawn together, “What?”

“There’s this bakery up the street, and it closes in a bit. I, erm, I remember that you like sweets after footie – for whatever reason,” he waves it off as no-big-deal, but, to Louis, it’s a really-really-mountainously-big-deal. He knows Harry expects him to say no, too. But he feels young, stupid, a little bit reckless.

So he bites his lip on a smile, “Yeah. Alright.”

\---

They rinse off in their respective showers quickly and throw on cleaner clothes, leaving the house quietly. It’s within walking distance, so they start down the street easily. Harry remembers a time when he didn’t have to calculate how much room was enough for Louis, how close he should be to him. He tucks his hands in his jumper’s front pocket to avoid the possibility of any accidental hand-brushing. If Louis notices, he doesn’t say anything.

They continue in comfortable silence for five minutes before Harry tests the waters, “So, how – uh – who – erm,” he coughs, ‘ _Stellar, Styles. Honestly, could you be a bigger idiot,’_ he scolds himself before finally spitting out, “How have you been?” Louis throws him a look, one that clearly says _‘Are you fucking serious?’_ And Harry throws his hands up in surrender before shoving them back, deeper into his pocket. “Alright, dumb question. Noted,” he sighs, defeated.

“Harry,” Louis grumbles, “You know bloody well how I’ve been. Please don’t embarrass me by making me spill my guts _again._ ”

“You’ve gotta give me something for trying here, Louis,” there’s a pleading edge to his voice.

“Oh, that’s rich!” And _‘God fucking dammit’_ Harry thinks, “You get to fuck right off for _five_ years, come back, and expect little gold stars for _‘trying’_?” Louis throws in air quotes on the last word for good measure.

“Louis,” Harry groans, bringing his hands out again to rub the tension from his eyes. “I’m, God, I’ll never be able to tell you how fucking sorry I am, okay? I just. I needed to be alone. I needed to deal with things on my own.” His voice grows softer toward the end, and Louis turns to look at him as they walk. He stares intently at the side of his face, at the places his dimples would be if he weren’t frowning, at the way that, this close, he can see all the changes, how much o _lder_ he looks. Worn, almost. Tired and frayed.

It’s then that Louis wonders if this was Harry’s plan all along; to get him out into the darkness, where their secrets seem much less fragile, and get him angry, get him to let it out and let it go. “You’re unbelievable,” he grunts, turning back to face the road.

“I just,” Harry starts dejectedly, “I need us to be okay. In some little, minuscule way, I need us to be alright. I need you to,” he pauses, clenches his eyes shut and breathes in through his mouth - the way he does when Louis knows he’s trying not to cry, “forgive me.”

Louis doesn’t snap back the way he wants to, he pauses, weighs Harry’s words and then his own, settles on, “Why?”

“I- just do.”

“Bullocks. Be honest. You owe me that much. Why do you ‘need’ me to forgive you?”

“Fu- ugh. Fine, Louis. Fine. You want the truth? Here it is. I fucking loved you. I loved you so much it felt like I’d burst some times, like I couldn’t contain the way I felt about it, like it poured out of my eyes and my mouth and fingertips. I loved you with absolutely everything I had, and maybe that was always part of our problem, but you loved me, too. We were in love. We were in love, but even if we hadn’t been – even if we didn’t love each other in the way that we did – we still would have been a part of something so beautiful. That band meant so much to me; I couldn’t bear to watch it burn. The lads, they are now and always will be huge parts of my lives – whether they are physically there or not. I needed their forgiveness, too. But forgive me if I feel like I need yours just a bit more.” He chokes on the last sentence, and everything in Louis wants to curl around him like a safety blanket. He wants to warm him and coddle him and tell him that he was never, ever really and truly angry with him. That he masks all his hurt with spikes of anger because it’s easier for him to stomach. They’re about to walk into the bakery, though, and he really doesn’t feel it the place to do so.

He holds the door open and they both walk through, the harsh florescent lights catching on Harry’s tear tracks as he turns his head to the side, trying to not let Louis see. He doesn’t say anything.

They browse around the bakery, unusual isles of treats laid out at waist level. Harry makes his way to the cakes and picks up a chocolate cupcake, inspecting it like only he would before giving a thoughtful nod.

“Up to your standards then, Mr. Grand Baker?” It’s cheeky and light and catches Harry off-guard, but he smiles anyway.

“Decent enough,” he shrugs.

“Yeah, well,” Louis smiles and looks down at spread of cakes in front of him, trying to decide.

“C’mon then, Lou. ‘S not your prom dress,” Harry’s smirks at him.

“Are you trying to imply that I am a _girl_ , Harry Styles?” Louis mocks offense.

Harry weighs his options for just a moment before deciding to throw caution at the wind, “If the bum fits.”

Louis gawks at him before reaching down and picking up the first thing his hand touches, consequently a heavily iced strawberry cupcake, and throws it straight at Harry’s face. “You are s _uch_ a twat,” he laughs as it smears his nose in icing, crumbs catching on his collar.

Harry stares at him in disbelief before he gets a dangerous look in his eye, “Oh, now it’s on.” He quickly scoops up three different cupcakes and throws them one after the other at Louis – his chest, his face, his groin – and Louis can barely react quickly enough, still ends up covered. It turns into absolute carnage then as they grab any and everything they can – cakes, pastries, pies, anything – and chuck them at each other, ducking under tables and behind isles for cover.

“OI! WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?!” They hear a loud, deep voice yell from across the store. Footsteps get louder as the man gets closer, having come from the back preparation room.

Harry catches Louis’ eye and is still laughing, but catches his breath enough to yell, “RUN!” And they scramble to their feet, running quickly out the door and down the street, the muffled, wheezing yells and curses of the old baker behind them. They run side by side, bumping carelessly into each other, not daring to look back.

And they run, run, run, and they laugh, laugh, laugh until their sides and smiles hurt; they run until Harry absolutely has to stop before he collapses – head, heart light and knees just so weak. He steadies himself, bent at the waist, on a lonesome streetlight post with Louis just a few paces ahead. They lost the store owner ages ago, and Harry hopes the light he sees in Louis’ eyes isn’t just an illusion. He hopes with all he has that he helped put it there, that maybe they could both stick around a while.

Harry is covered meringue and brown sugar, but Louis got smashed bits of Red Velvet cake staining his crisp-white shirt and what looks like strawberry icing smeared across the right side of his face, coating a bit of his hair, something Harry knows he’ll complain about later. He’s never looked more beautiful.

Harry wishes more than ever that he had his camera, so he could capture the way this moment looks and feels right now. He wants to tuck it away in the more recent pages of a leather-bound book that rests in the back corner of his closet and draw little uneven hearts all around it. He wants to make sure that, one day, someone somewhere will know that he was one of the lucky ones. That, despite it all, he had love. He had so much love.

Louis falls to his knees and coughs as he laughs, falling back onto his haunches, he looks at Harry. “What the hell did we just do?”

“I’m never gonna be allowed back to this town,” He pretends to gripe in response.

“An outlaw, y’are.”

“The pair of us. Bonnie and Clyde, I reckon.”

“Mate,” Louis laughs, pulling himself to his feet, “More like Thelma and Louise.”

Harry chuckles, “You’re right. I’m Thelma?”

Louis walks closer, pulls Harry to stand upright, “Of course. Don’t be ridiculous.”

Harry smiles at him and stares just a little too long, but Louis allows it. He knows he shouldn’t, but he brings his hand up to cradle the side of Louis’ face - and he’ll blame it on the adrenaline later, the way it made him feel so young – and uses his thumb to wipe the bit of icing from his cheek.

He watches Louis eyes flicker from his hair to his eyes to his lips and back again, lingering on his lips the second time ‘round. He’s just about to do something even more reckless when Louis steps out of his old, backward, and points over his shoulder, “We should be getting back then, yeah?”

Harry’s hand is frozen in the air, thumb covered in icing but burning all the same. “Yeah.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @delilahfiction // nodibs.tumblr.com


	5. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. "This is my manifesto, I suppose." This one goes exactly where you think it goes. I'm reaaalllyyy sorry. 
> 
> I have no beta and no time to check this right now, so any and all mistakes are only my own. I promise to fix them tomorrow.
> 
> warnings for: medical inaccuracies, terminal cancer, off-screen major character death, implied suicide, inexcusable overuse of commas, emotionally stilted sexy times, attics.

They’re not-talking-about-it, which is just as bad as any impending conversation could be. Harry looks like the words are constantly on the tip of his tongue. He’s always seconds away from saying, “I could have kissed you. You would have let me,” with the same smugness he held at 17, and Louis would be completely useless to it. But he doesn’t, and Louis wouldn’t dare breach the subject. So, they’re not-talking-about-it. It’s fine. Really, it is. 

 

Except it’s not because Niall and Zayn shoot him side glances, where Liam is polite enough to turn his cheek to it. He never did do well with confrontation, especially between Harry and Louis, even more so with HarryandLouis. Then again, maybe it isn’t courtesy at all. 

 

Louis notices on the second to last night at the bungalow. They’re around the fire again, the sun setting fiery hues behind the trees as it slips beneath the horizon. Niall’s more than a little pissed when he stumbles out and to his seat with his guitar strapped to him. He started drinking around noon while the other boys waited for a more appropriate time of day. 

 

“I’m gettin’ me another pint, mates. Anybody wanna finally join me? Oi, Styles!” Niall calls across the fire, causing Harry’s eyes to shoot up, having been focusing on twisting the rings on his fingers, “You wanna drink, mate?” He asks kindly. 

 

“I’m good, mate. Thanks,” Harry shrugs off, looking back to his hands.

 

“Nonsense! You haven’t had a drop since you’ve been here, and that goes against everything this family stands for. Chose your poison before I pick for ya!” He laughs, swaying slightly. 

 

“Honestly, Niall. I’d rather not. Thank you, though. Really, mate,” Harry’s tone is flat, and that’s when Louis’ ears perk up. It’s an uncommon thing, Harry denying a drink, but it isn’t unheard of. The sequence of events that follow is what begins to confuse him, though. Liam leans over to Niall, kicking his shin lightly and shaking his head softly, a quiet, “Let it go.” 

 

“Oh, mate. I’m sorry. Is that part of the - the thing then, yeah? That’s it, innit? I didn’t think about that. I just thought ya might,” he cuts himself off, taking a deep breath in, and then breathes out quickly. “I’ll just - that drink,” and then he’s gone in flash, all but running into the house and slamming the sliding glass door. Liam follows close behind him, looking twenty pounds heavier in his steps. Louis only stares at their now-empty seats. 

 

“That was… odd,” he says slowly. 

 

“Yeah, suppose it was,” Harry says, and his voice is strained in the way it only is when he’s choosing his words carefully. 

 

Zayn doesn’t even make an excuse as he stands up, pats Harry on his shoulder before dipping down and kissing the crown of his head, “Love you, mate,” he whispers nearly too quiet for Louis to hear. 

 

“You, too,” Harry replies, pulling his lip between his teeth, gnawing at it in the way he only does when he’s nervous, and Louis hates that. He hates that he knows that. He hates that he can still identify all the things Harry does so easily still. The atmosphere has shifted, though. The calmingly simple night has turned sour, but neither of them make the move to ease the tension building. They’re still not-talking-about-it, and Louis isn’t about to break that for the sake of a little peace of mind. He takes another swig of his beer, downing the rest of it. He’s always been a bit selfish. 

 

Harry clears his throat, another nervous reflex. Louis sighs. Harry shuffles his feet. Louis taps his now-empty beer bottle. Harry sits up straighter, clasps his hands together. Louis looks anywhere but to his left. The moment lingers. Their ears begin to ring with the silence. The fire crackles. Someone, Zayn, laughs from inside the house, muffled and familiar. Harry groans like he’s been wounded, loud and honest, and Louis jumps in his seat, whipping his head around to him. 

 

It’s jarring, seeing Harry so undone. He’s got his elbows sunk into his knees, the sleeves of his too-big black shirt pulled over his hands that shield his eyes. He’s curled in on himself, shivering with some kind of emotion but not yet crying. Louis’ at a loss for words. 

 

“Harry…” he tries gently, coughs once, “are you, er, alright there?” 

 

He laughs. Harry laughs, and Louis nearly gets emotional whiplash because he’s so confused. “Suppose I’m not, Louis. I suppose I’m not really alright.” 

 

“Yeah? Why’s…why is that?” He’s choosing his words carefully. They’ve gone from radio silence to nostalgic normalcy in the span of just a couple of days, and while they’ve been through too much to ever truly become strangers again, Louis didn’t expect to play the part of confidant just yet. 

 

Harry exhales shakily and then inhales deeply before he raises his head to look Louis in the eyes. That’s when Louis realises it has nothing to do with him. It has nothing to do with what they aren’t-talking-about. It doesn’t, because for as long as he’s known Harry, for as many things as they’ve shared together, he’s seen him in a million situations that warranted a million different emotions except the one he’s showing now. Never in his life has he seen Harry Styles so scared. He’s wearing it all, ripped open at the seams. He’s lost, maybe even a little regretful, but, mostly, he’s bloody terrified. 

 

“Harry, what’s going on?” Louis sits on the edge of his chair, his eyebrows coming together, all his instinct shouting to stop asking questions and hold him. 

 

“Something’s happened,” Harry responds quietly, his eyes falling to Louis’ exposed arms, “and I probably should have told you before it… before now,” he swallows harshly to try and rid himself of the lump growing in his throat, pushing his hair out of his face and making his eyes meet Louis’ once more. 

 

Louis only nods at him. 

 

“I, um, earlier this year I was feelin’ rather ill? So, I, y’know, went to the doctor after mum started hounding me about it. I swear, for months it was just, “You should get that checked out!” and “Don’t wait on that appointment,” and on and on. I really should’ve just listened to her, you know. Could have been so much easier that way. I don’t know why I -”

 

 

“Harry,” Louis interrupts, his eyebrows having drawn even closer together through Harry’s rambling, “What is it?” 

 

“I have cancer,” Harry breathes quickly, quietly, but it might as well have been the loudest fucking thing Louis has ever heard. He might as well have screamed it. 

 

Everything rushes out of Louis at once. It doesn’t feel like a confession; it feels like artillery barrage. It feels like pin-shaped bullets are pulling through him. It feels like every last nerve in his body is white-hot as his blood runs cold. Numb. It feels like he’s floating, like all real-life travesties are foreign. Here, in the comfort of their fire-warm circle of half-strained friendships, lays an abundance of love no time or distance could erase from the years they spent in each other’s pockets. Cancer is only something you’re taught about in Health class, or something you read in the paper. It doesn’t happen to young, healthy, beautiful people. It doesn’t happen to Harry. 

 

Harry. Charming, sweet, loving, careless, stupid, awful Harry. Louis should have known better. He should have run the moment he saw him, queued up at The X-Factor with his ridiculous cardigan and fluffy curls and dimples to build a home in. Maybe he could have spared them all some heartache. 

 

The wind blows from his right. It licks the tips of his ears and pushes the words from his throat, “…How long?” It isn’t graceful, or polite, or remotely empathetic. It’s brash and crass and shaken. 

 

Harry stares at him for a moment, seems to weigh his reply behind his teeth, “Have I known?” He begins, Louis nods. “I was, um, diagnosed a couple of years ago now…” Louis grits his teeth to keep from shouting. “Underwent some treatments, even went into remission last year,” he smiles, sadly, Louis notes. Sadly. “They removed a tumor from my left hemisphere,” he starts, pointing to his head. “Left a nasty scar, but the hair grew back well enough.” Louis’ fingers twitch with the desire to run his hands through his curls, trace the scar, see it, kiss it, pour his love into the creases. “What they don’t tell you right away,” Harry begins again, chuckling humorlessly, “is that remission isn’t a permanent status, and those buggers can grow back all they please.” 

 

Louis blanches. He nearly feels the blood leave his face and rush to his fingertips. “Harry…” Louis starts, but doesn’t finish. Instead, he swallows down all the words that pileup on the very back of his tongue in one solid mass. He bites his lip, scoots further to the edge of his seat, turns his body to Harry’s, and maybe it’s cliche, and maybe it’s stupid, and maybe it isn’t even true, but he’s only now noticing how much thinner Harry looks. It’s hidden skillfully behind larger sweaters and larger hats that shadow the hollow of his cheeks, but it’s there, shouting at Louis for ever tearing his gaze astray. 

 

“Six months,” Harry spits out, “Six months is what they gave me.” 

 

Louis eyes slam close, his heart stutters its pace, his hands squeeze together with the threat of breaking each fragile bone. Suddenly, there’s a solid, lead weight in his stomach that has him nearly curling in on himself. His eyes burn hot without his consent, a sob tears from his lips all the same, but he isn’t crying. He isn’t. It’s like all his tension, all his resentment, all of his fear and agony is trying to escape him at once. It’s too much to cry. He wants to bloody scream. He wants to turn his face to the sky and scream his fucking heart out. He wants to ask why, wants to demand answers from a deity he isn’t even entirely sure he believes in. He wants to believe that if he did believe, life wouldn’t be so cruel. Harry wouldn’t have a bloody sentence. Harry would be kissing him instead. 

 

Louis lets out a strained, “God,” and his breath leaves him quickly, leaving him panting and pained. “When- why, Haz,” the old nickname slips out like it was never confined to the darker corners of Louis’ mind. He tries again, “Harry. When… did - How long-”

 

Harry takes pity, cutting him off with a quiet, “ ‘Bout five months ago now, I suppose.” 

 

Louis sees red. All of his old habits come into play; all of his emotions concentrate into blind rage. Anger. He stands up quickly, startling Harry backward in his chair, eyes wide. “BLOODY HELL, HARRY!” Everything becomes that much quieter around them. The steadying ambiance of nearby wildlife is nearly inaudible, not a sound comes from the house. “You - how could you - who do you think you bloody are, you - how could you do this to us? To me!” He demands, face red, cheeks tearstained, eyes hopelessly lost as he stairs back into Harry’s weeping greens. 

 

Harry doesn’t reply.

 

“How can you fuck off for _five years_ , fight yourself a round of fuckin’ _cancer,_ and come back a _month_ before you’re-” And he can’t. He can’t finish the line of _bullshit_ leaving his mouth because he can’t wrap his tongue around any kind of formidable line involving Harry and a grave. 

 

Harry’s eyes are bloodshot, but his face is stoic. If it weren’t for the steady flow of fresh tears coming heavily down his cheeks, you’d almost think he hadn’t heard a word. But then he stands. He stands and he towers over Louis when he walks closer, so closely that Louis begrudgingly tips his head back to look him in the eye. 

 

Louis breathes for a count of three before Harry’s pushing soft lips to his own, and _fuck. Fuck, fuck fuck._ Louis’ hands flop uselessly at his sides before giving in and grabbing tightly at Harry’s sides. It’s only when Harry feels those fingertips press with ease into dip in his waist that he lets himself sink into it. He brings his tongue to swipe over Louis’ bottom lip and Louis takes him in without a second thought. 

 

Suddenly, they 17 and 19. 18 and 20. 19 and 21. They’re every year they ever spent wrapped in this small embrace. Those years broke them, their environment broke them, _they_ broke them. And somehow, all the nights within those years that Louis spent crying into Harry’s bare shoulder about how _unfair_ it all was seem like a joke. He’d take it all back. He’d take that and some more. He’d fight the world for his boy; he’d do it right this time. If only they’d known how good they had it. 

 

Harry makes a desperate sound that Louis hasn’t heard in, _God,_ far too long and deepens the kiss further. Frail, cold hands come up to frame Louis’ face. “Not a day in my _life,_ ” Harry begins, only pulling back far enough to speak the words against Louis’ lips, eyes still closed, “Have I ever stopped loving you.” Louis whimpers. He actually fucking whimpers because he’s never loved another human being the way he loved Harry. The way he loves him. The way his fingers shake and his soul has ached for this very moment. 

 

Harry opens his eyes. Red, wet, green. Louis hasn’t breathed in an alarmingly long time. He sucks in air so rapidly he nearly chokes, “Say it again.” 

 

Harry stares a moment. “I love you,” he says just as lightly as before, then, with more conviction, “I love you.” 

 

Louis comes apart at the seams. He surges forward with a ferocity he hadn’t known he harbored, pushing his hands through Harry’s curls and bringing their lips together once more. Harry’s feet bump his own when he steps the tiniest bit closer, pressing them together from ankles to eyelids, bumping noses to quivering knees. Solid. 

 

In the end, it’s Louis, without even realising what he’d done, what it implied, who reached his hand down into Harry’s back pocket. Harry breaks the kiss quickly, breathes harshly, nods firmly, and pulls Louis inside the house. All the lights are off except the one over the kitchen sink, and the other lads probably kept an eye on them until the very first kiss before turning in, but Louis doesn’t let himself think about it much. Instead, he focuses all of his energy on not hyperventilating and letting Harry lead him up the stairs. His feet feel heavier than usual, their footfalls are near silent on the carpeted staircase, but they sound like gunshots in his ear. 

 

They reach the hallway, and Louis expects them to turn right at the second door, into his room. As they pass it, he expects them to turn left just after, into Harry’s room. Instead, Harry pulls his hand to the very last door to the right. It’s just another bedroom. Painfully neutral color scheme, one four-post bed, and a floral print chair in the corner. It shouldn’t be anything spectacular, but when he pulls his shirt over his head and Louis puts his hands over bare, bare skin, Harry’s muscles pull and relax like he’s been set free. 

 

Harry strips Louis’ shirt off easily, kissing him soundly, says, “When I was younger, whenever I’d get upset, I’d run here,” whispers, little whispers, “I’d run to this room, and, through that closet there’s a latter that pulls down to get to the attic. It’s not much, to be fair, but it’s mine, Louis.” He opens his eyes, looks at Louis like he’s meant to take in every last word, “It’s the only place I felt like nothing could touch me. It’s got a small lookout over the pastures and the street, it’s got a bookshelf with a million things I never read, but there’s also a notebook, a diary I kept of you and me. Whenever it would get too much, whenever it would get too bad, I started coming back here when I visited mum. This is mine, Louis,” he says it with finality. Louis nods like he understands. He doesn’t. Harry kisses him again anyway, walking them backward blindly until Louis’ knees catch the bed. 

 

The rest of their clothing comes of quickly, strewn across the floorboards like they always belonged there, like they would be at home. So, maybe it’s the familiarity, or maybe it’s the heat of the moment, or maybe it’s just the fucking truth when Harry finally, finally sinks into Louis and he says, “I love you, too.” 

 

————

 

Louis feels like he’s floating. Consciousness just out of reach when he feels a hand run along the side of his face. “I love you,” Harry says to his right, lips tickling the hair at his temple. It’s comfortable. Louis feels like he’s sinking. He’s falling further into the mattress, back into sleep, as Harry continues to press his lips to his skin. “I love you.” 

 

———

 

Louis wakes up the next morning to a breeze. He cracks one eye open to find the window ajar, soft light pouring through. He sighs bodily, rolling his back momently. He smiles slightly and turns his head to the right, fully intent on burying his face in Harry’s curls and going back to sleep. Instead, he’s met with sheets firmly tucked beneath the pillow and his clothes neatly folded on the chair in the corner. He sits up slowly, considers the possibility of it all being a dream, but the twinge in his bum is a steady enough reminder that, no, Harry was here. 

 

He stands to dress himself and makes his way down the hall, looking quickly into the rooms as he passes. He pads down the stairs and into the kitchen, and it’s nothing like anything he’s ever wanted to see. Niall’s got his head down at the table, his fingers running softly over an incredibly familiar leather-bound notebook, ‘one and only’ scribed into the side. Harry’s lyric book. 

 

Liam’s got his hip leant against the kitchen counter, something clenched tightly in left hand as his right holds a single piece of paper. His fist unclenches slowly and Louis sees keys dangle from his fingers. Harry’s motorcycle. 

 

Louis turns his head and sees Zayn crouched just outside the sliding glass door. He’s got one hand in his hair, pulling slightly, a single piece of paper in his other, and a cigarette dangling from between his teeth. The sun catches on his tear tracks. Looking back, Louis notes Harry’s prized, old Polaroid camera sitting on the edge of the table closest to the sliding door. 

 

And Harry’s not there. Louis doesn’t kid himself. Harry’s left. He brings his hands up to rub his face and when he pulls them away, Liam’s looking at him. Before he knows how to process it, Liam’s up and wrapped around him. Louis drops his head into the crook of Liam’s neck and breathes shakily. “Louis,” Liam says, and that’s all it takes. One, wretched sob escapes him and then there’s another body pressed along his back. “Louis,” the body says. Niall. Louis’ got one fist tangled in Liam’s jumper, the other wrapped around Niall’s forearm. He hears the backdoor slide open, “Louis,” Zayn breathes, and when he comes over, positions himself at Louis’ side, the gap on the opposite side feels even larger. Still, they hold Louis, and they hold each other, and they stay there for what could be hours, but is probably minutes, until Louis lifts his head and loosens his grip. 

 

They take a moment to sniffle softly, take two steps back. “Louis,” Liam says again, “There’s - he left a note for you.” 

 

Louis, nearly on reflex, looks wide-eyed at Zayn who only stares back. He looks back to Liam, wants to yell, wants cry, wants to collapse onto the floor. “Where is it?” he asks instead. 

 

“The counter,” Niall prompts, patting his back softly. 

 

He’d looked over it before, but Louis spots it easily enough this time. As he walks toward it, Liam speaks again, “We’re going to, um. We’ll be in the living room. If you - we’ll be there.” 

 

Louis nods once and watches them go. He eyes Zayn’s lighter on the table, considers burning the lightly tanned paper that awaits him. He’s angry. He’s angry because this is typical Harry. Typical, young, stupid, selfish Harry to leave them, him, like this. Louis isn’t stupid enough, isn’t optimistic enough, to think Harry will come back around. He sees it for what it is. Instead of facing up to them, giving them the explanation, apology, _goodbye,_ he’s set off on his merry way with nothing but a few messily scribed notes and meaningless material possessions. 

 

He grabs his own letter with shaky hands, breathes once, twice, before he lets the first line sink in. 

 

_My darling Louis,_

 

__ **_I_ ** _know you’re angry. You have every right to be. I know you know that. No, I don’t think you need some kind of validation of that from me. Stop doing that thing in your head and just listen for a second, yeah? I’m not going to die in a hospital bed. I refuse to leave in a cold, white room weakly wrapped in wires. So, this is it. This is my manifesto, I suppose. I know you’re angry. I know you’re so, so angry at me, and I know that you think me leaving this letter is a cop-out. I know you’re disappointed. I know you’re hurt. I’m sorry._

 

_I’m so sorry. It means nothing in the grander scheme of things, I suppose, but I mean it. I mean it with everything in me,_ **_L_ ** _ou. There are only three other words I’ve ever meant more. But you’re angry with me. I’m angry with me. I’m angry at the world, darling. I’m angry at the world and maybe God, but, mostly, I’m angry with me, to_ **_o_ ** _._

 

_I spent so many days with my head in my hands wishing they were yours instead. I tried to stay away because, at first, I thought it was what you wanted. I wanted you to be free. I wanted you to try and move on from all of the bullshit we went through. I wanted you to be happy. I could kick myself, Louis. I should have come back to you._

 

_I don’t have time to waste on the ‘would’ve’, ‘could’_ **_ve_ ** _’, and should’ve’s anymore. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. Bar none. I could live a hundred years, Louis, cancer and fame and boybands be_ _damned_ . _I could live a hundred years and you still would have been it for me._ ** _Y_** _ou will always be my final puzzle piece. Y_ ** _o_** _u will always be my forever. Yo_ ** _u_** _will always be everything to me._

 

_Am I selfish for coming back only to leave so quickly? Absolutely. Though, I hope, in time, you can find it in your heart to forgive me. For everything. I never meant to hurt you. I’ll love you until your own heart stops._

 

_Yours entirely,_

_Harry_

 

_ps: what’s mine, is yours._

 

_———_

 

“Louis! Hurry up! We have to go!” Liam calls from down the stairs. 

 

“Just a minute!” Louis calls back. 

 

“It’s nothing,” he tells himself. “It’s absolutely nothing. Just. One look, then you can leave and never, ever come back.” He’s psyching himself out as he stares at the latter in front of him. It’s short and shaky, leads into the bungalow’s dimly lit attic. 

 

It’s as he was packing earlier that the thought came to him. He was reciting Harry’s note in his head for the sixty-third time when he remembered, with absolute clarity, Harry’s dark green eyes pouring something like a secret into him. _“This is mine, Louis.” What’s mine, is yours._

 

He sighs in resignation and grips a peg, begins his ascent. It’s everything Harry said it was. There are two windows on either side, bringing sparse light into the area, two vantage points of the small village, one of the pastures, one of the street. There’s a bookshelf tucked into the corner by the window overlooking the pastures, a small pallet of blankets that look old and worn lay forgotten on the floor. There are two polaroid pictures pinned to the wall just beside the shelf. One is of an ordinary sunset - pink, blue, fiery orange hues. The other is of Harry’s mum, looking livelier and lovelier than Louis had ever seen her. 

 

He runs his fingers along the wall, the window pane,the frayed edges of the blanket as he sits down. There’s a bright yellow post-it note stuck to the bottom shelf. _‘Louis,’_ it reads, ‘ _Top shelf, third from the left.’_ Louis complies. 

 

When he pulls down that book from the top shelf, third from the left, he recognises it immediately. It’s a worn, black-leather bound diary. One of many Harry carried throughout their time in the band. He runs his fingers over the ridges, notes the gaps in the pages, various paperclips tucked into the corners of pages toward the back. Then, he opens it. As soon as he does, a polaroid comes fluttering out, falling to the floor. He eyes the back of it cautiously, slowly moving himself to the floor. He flips it over in his hand and nearly drops it again. 

 

17 year old Harry is sat on his lap, their lips only centimeters apart, looking into each others eyes like the whole world’s stopped. He remembers this moment. They were backstage somewhere in America, maybe Texas, and Zayn had nicked Harry’s camera to ‘ _prove how disgustingly sweet’_ they were. He caught Harry looking at it on more than one occasion. 

 

He scans the pages, fingers running over Harry’s messy scrawl. The first few entries range from what they ate for dinner to a detailed description of the way Louis looks in the morning sun. He skips over the entry of their first time and of their first real fight and watches as the entries get farther and farther apart. Three blank pages. Another polaroid, recent, appears three-quarters of the way through. It’s of Harry in front of the Eiffel Tower, thumbs up, all smiles, a pink beanie tucked over his ears, ‘ _France 30/7’_ written in black sharpie on the page it’s clipped to. The next page is mostly the same, except this time he’s on a beach, ‘ _Mykonos 04/8’_ . It seems to go on forever, page after page of a polaroid from different places. He smiles, bites his lip, laughs at one particular picture involving Harry and an oversized Giraffe plush toy in Ireland, and he lets his tears fall freely. 

 

He turns the second to last page and startles as something falls into his lap. There’s no polaroid stuck to it, but, instead, another note for him. 

 

_Louis,_

 

_This journal is one of the only things I’ve ever cherished. After I got the news, after they slapped me with the ’T’ word, my therapist asked if I had a bucket list. I laughed, Louis. I didn’t have one. Newly terminal, six months away from kickin’ the bucket, and I didn’t have a list of things to do. The next day, I booked a ticket to Amsterdam. I’ve traveled on and off, for weeks at a time, ever since then. The day I arrived back at the bungalow, I was fresh of the plane from New York City. I took a picture in every city to try and tell a story - maybe of loss, probably of love, hopefully of reconciliation. I left them here for you to do what you want with them. Keep them, burn them, lock them in a safe if you’d like. What’s mine is yours. But please just do me one last favor._

 

_This is a roundtrip ticket to Rome. I booked it a few months ago. It leaves in a few days, next Tuesday morning. I won’t be able to make this one, I’m afraid. I need you to go for me. I need you to go and fill the last page of this journal. I need you to finish the story. Please._

 

_Yours,_

 

_H_

 

_———_

 

Harry Styles died on a Wednesday afternoon, in his London home, of a prescription pill overdose. 

 

The last message received on his mobile phone is a picture text from Louis Tomlinson. 

 

A smile, thumbs up, pink beanie pulled over his ears in front of the Coliseum. It reads, _’08/10 Rome.’_

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> complaints / comments / concerns / angry emotional yelling: nodibs.tumblr.com / @delilahfiction
> 
> *** Note: I'm aware that, with a month left to live, Harry would be far too weak to do any of this. Hence the warning for medical inaccuracies. This was all designed with the soul intent of suspending disbelief and making you sad. Soz. xxx

**Author's Note:**

> nodibs.tumblr.com / @delilahfiction


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